All winter, I look forward to the warmer days when I don’t have to dress in layers for my sorties with Savannah. I anticipate being able to pop out in flip-flops and a T-shirt holding merely a poop bag and her leash. All winter, I hear myself whining that it takes me 10 minutes extra to don wooly hat, coat, scarf, gloves, socks and boots, plus another five minutes to loop Savannah’s coat round her legs and under her tummy. Yes, it gets that cold in Atlanta, contrary to what “they” told me when we first arrived in Georgia (but that’s a blog for another time.)
I’ve ditched the coat and scarf, but I’m still whining. On with the mask and gloves which just don’t match the flip-flops. And when I take off the gloves, my fingers are all wrinkly as if I’ve been in the bath too long. Life is no longer spontaneous. The sanitation station inside our front door holds a selection of alcohol wipes and anti-bacterial spray, as well as gloves and masks and piles of newspaper so that, heaven’s forbid, no package touches the floor before being sanitized. I’m adept at removing my gloves with nary a finger touching a clean surface, thanks to YouTube tutorials – you can learn anything from YouTube.
We are exhorted, daily, to find at least one positive, one sliver of silver lining: I only have to put sunscreen on my forehead.